The Assassin's Blade

CHAPTER 1

The strange young woman had been staying at the White Pig Inn for two days now and had hardly spoken to anyone save for Nolan, who had taken one look at her fine night-dark clothes and bent over backward to accommodate her.

He gave her the best room at the Pig—the room he only offered to patrons he intended to bleed dry—and didn’t seem at all bothered by the heavy hood the young woman wore or the assortment of weapons that gleamed along her long, lean body. Not when she tossed him a gold coin with a casual flick of her gloved fingers. Not when she was wearing an ornate gold brooch with a ruby the size of a robin’s egg.

Then again, Nolan was never really afraid of anyone, unless they seemed likely not to pay him—and even then, it was anger and greed, not fear, that won out.

Yrene Towers had been watching the young woman from the safety of the taproom bar. Watching, if only because the stranger was young and unaccompanied and sat at the back table with such stillness that it was impossible not to look. Not to wonder.

Yrene hadn’t seen her face yet, though she’d caught a glimpse every now and then of a golden braid glinting from the depths of her black hood. In any other city, the White Pig Inn would likely be considered the lowest of the low as far as luxury and cleanliness were concerned. But here in Innish, a port town so small it wasn’t on most maps, it was considered the finest.

Yrene glanced at the mug she was currently cleaning and tried not to wince. She did her best to keep the bar and taproom clean, to serve the Pig’s patrons—most of them sailors or merchants or mercenaries who often thought she was up for purchase as well—with a smile. But Nolan still watered down the wine, still washed the sheets only when there was no denying the presence of lice and fleas, and sometimes used whatever meat could be found in the back alley for their daily stew.

Yrene had been working here for a year now—eleven months longer than she had intended—and the White Pig still sickened her. Considering that she could stomach almost anything (a fact that allowed both Nolan and Jessa to demand she clean up the most disgusting messes of their patrons), that was really saying something.

The stranger at the back table lifted her head, signaling with a gloved finger for Yrene to bring another ale. For someone who didn’t seem older than twenty, the young woman drank an ungodly amount—wine, ale, whatever Nolan bade Yrene bring over—but never seemed to lose herself to it. It was impossible to tell with that heavy hood, though. These past two nights she’d merely stalked back to her room with a feline grace, not stumbling over herself like most of the patrons on their way out after last call.

Yrene quickly poured ale into the mug she’d just been drying and set it on a tray. She added a glass of water and some more bread, since the girl hadn’t touched the stew she’d been given for dinner. Not a single bite. Smart woman.

Yrene wove through the packed taproom, dodging the hands that tried to grab her. Halfway through her trek, she caught Nolan’s eye from where he sat by the front door. An encouraging nod, his mostly bald head gleaming in the dim light. Keep her drinking. Keep her buying.

Yrene avoided rolling her eyes, if only because Nolan was the sole reason she wasn’t walking the cobblestone streets with the other young women of Innish. A year ago, the stout man had let her convince him that he needed more help in the tavern below the inn. Of course, he’d only accepted when he realized he’d be receiving the better end of the bargain.

But she’d been eighteen and desperate, and had gladly taken a job that offered only a few coppers and a miserable little bed in a broom closet beneath the stairs. Most of her money came from tips, but Nolan claimed half of them. And then Jessa, the other barmaid, usually claimed two-thirds of what remained, because, as Jessa often said, she was the pretty face that gets the men to part with their money, anyway.

One glance into a corner revealed that pretty face and its attendant body perched on the lap of a bearded sailor, giggling and tossing her thick brown curls. Yrene sighed through her nose but didn’t complain, because Jessa was Nolan’s favorite, and Yrene had nowhere—absolutely nowhere—left to go. Innish was her home now, and the White Pig was her haven. Outside of it, the world was too big, too full of splintered dreams and armies that had crushed and burned everything Yrene held dear.

Yrene at last reached the stranger’s table and found the young woman looking up at her. “I brought you some water and bread, too,” Yrene stammered by way of greeting. She set down the ale, but hesitated with the other two items on her tray.

The young woman just said, “Thank you.” Her voice was low and cool—cultured. Educated. And completely uninterested in Yrene.

Not that there was anything about her that was remotely interesting, with her homespun wool dress doing little for her too-slim figure. Like most who hailed from southern Fenharrow, Yrene had golden-tan skin and absolutely ordinary brown hair and was of average height. Only her eyes, a bright gold-brown, gave her any source of pride. Not that most people saw them. Yrene did her best to keep her eyes down most of the time, avoiding any invitation for communication or the wrong kind of attention.

So, Yrene set down the bread and water and took the empty mug from where the girl had pushed it to the center of the table. But curiosity won out, and she peered into the black depths beneath the young woman’s cowl. Nothing but shadows, a gleam of gold hair, and a hint of pale skin. She had so many questions—so, so many questions. Who are you? Where do you come from? Where are you going? Can you use all those blades you carry?

Nolan was watching the entire encounter, so Yrene curtsied and walked back to the bar through the field of groping hands, eyes downcast as she plastered a distant smile on her face.

Celaena Sardothien sat at her table in the absolutely worthless inn, wondering how her life had gone to hell so quickly.

She hated Innish. Hated the reek of trash and filth, hated the heavy blanket of mist that shrouded it day and night, hated the second-rate merchants and mercenaries and generally miserable people who occupied it.

No one here knew who she was, or why she’d come; no one knew that the girl beneath the hood was Celaena Sardothien, the most notorious assassin in Adarlan’s empire. But then again, she didn’t want them to know. Couldn’t let them know, actually. And didn’t want them knowing that she was just over a week away from turning seventeen, either.

She’d been here for two days now—two days spent either holed up in her despicable room (a “suite,” the oily innkeeper had the nerve to call it), or down here in the taproom that stank of sweat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies.

She would have left if she’d had any choice. But she was forced to be here, thanks to her master, Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins. She’d always been proud of her status as his chosen heir—always flaunted it. But now … This journey was her punishment for destroying his atrocious slave-trade agreement with the Pirate Lord of Skull’s Bay. So unless she wanted to risk the trek through the Bogdano Jungle—the feral bit of land that bridged the continent to the Deserted Land—sailing across the Gulf of Oro was the only way. Which meant waiting here, in this dump of a tavern, for a ship to take her to Yurpa.

Celaena sighed and took a long drink of her ale. She almost spat it out. Disgusting. Cheap as cheap could be, like the rest of this place. Like the stew she hadn’t touched. Whatever meat was in there wasn’t from any creature worth eating. Bread and mild cheese it was, then.

Celaena sat back in her seat, watching the barmaid with the brown-gold hair slip through the labyrinth of tables and chairs. The girl nimbly dodged the men who groped her, all without disturbing the tray she carried over her shoulder. What a waste of swift feet, good balance, and intelligent, stunning eyes. The girl wasn’t dumb. Celaena had noted the way she watched the room and its patrons—the way she watched Celaena herself. What personal hell had driven her to work here?

Celaena didn’t particularly care. The questions were mostly to drive the boredom away. She’d already devoured the three books she’d carried with her from Rifthold, and not one of the shops in Innish had a single book for sale—only spices, fish, out-of-fashion clothing, and nautical gear. For a port town, it was pathetic. But the Kingdom of Melisande had fallen on hard times in the past eight and a half years—since the King of Adarlan had conquered the continent and redirected trade through Eyllwe instead of Melisande’s few eastern ports.

The whole world had fallen on hard times, it seemed. Celaena included.

She fought the urge to touch her face. The swelling from the beating Arobynn had given her had gone down, but the bruises remained. She avoided looking in the sliver of mirror above her dresser, knowing what she’d see: mottled purple and blue and yellow along her cheekbones, a vicious black eye, and a still-healing split lip.

It was all a reminder of what Arobynn had done the day she returned from Skull’s Bay—proof of how she’d betrayed him by saving two hundred slaves from a terrible fate. She had made a powerful enemy of the Pirate Lord, and she was fairly certain she’d ruined her relationship with Arobynn, but she had been right. It was worth it; it would always be worth it, she told herself.

Even if she was sometimes so angry that she couldn’t think straight. Even if she’d gotten into not one, not two, but three bar fights in the two weeks that she’d been traveling from Rifthold to the Red Desert. One of the brawls, at least, had been rightfully provoked: a man had cheated at a round of cards. But the other two …

There was no denying it: she’d merely been spoiling for a fight. No blades, no weapons. Just fists and feet. Celaena supposed she should feel bad about it—about the broken noses and jaws, about the heaps of unconscious bodies in her wake. But she didn’t.

She couldn’t bring herself to care, because those moments she spent brawling were the few moments she felt like herself again. When she felt like Adarlan’s greatest assassin, Arobynn Hamel’s chosen heir.

Even if her opponents were drunks and untrained fighters; even if she should know better.

The barmaid reached the safety of the counter, and Celaena glanced about the room. The innkeeper was still watching her, as he had for the past two days, wondering how he could squeeze even more money out of her purse. There were several other men observing her, too. Some she recognized from previous nights, while others were new faces that she quickly sized up. Was it fear or luck that had kept them away from her so far?

She’d made no secret of the fact that she carried money with her. And her clothes and weapons spoke volumes about her wealth, too. The ruby brooch she wore practically begged for trouble—she wore it to invite trouble, actually. It was a gift from Arobynn on her sixteenth birthday; she hoped someone would try to steal it. If they were good enough, she might just let them. So it was only a matter of time, really, before one of them tried to rob her.

And before she decided she was bored of fighting only with fists and feet. She glanced at the sword by her side; it glinted in the tavern’s dank light.

But she would be leaving at dawn—to sail to the Deserted Land, where she’d make the journey to the Red Desert to meet the Mute Master of Assassins, with whom she was to train for a month as further punishment for her betrayal of Arobynn. If she were being honest with herself, though, she’d started entertaining the thought of not going to the Red Desert.

It was tempting. She could take a ship somewhere else—to the southern continent, perhaps—and start a new life. She could leave behind Arobynn, the Assassins’ Guild, the city of Rifthold, and Adarlan’s damned empire. There was little stopping her, save for the feeling that Arobynn would hunt her down no matter how far she went. And the fact that Sam … well, she didn’t know what had happened to her fellow assassin that night the world had gone to hell. But the lure of the unknown remained, the wild rage that begged her to cast off the last of Arobynn’s shackles and sail to a place where she could establish her own Assassins’ Guild. It would be so, so easy.

But even if she decided not to take the ship to Yurpa tomorrow and instead took one bound for the southern continent, she was still left with another night in this awful inn. Another sleepless night where she could only hear the roar of anger in her blood as it thrashed inside her.

If she were smart, if she were levelheaded, she would avoid any confrontation tonight and leave Innish in peace, no matter where she went.

But she wasn’t feeling particularly smart, or levelheaded—certainly not once the hours passed and the air in the inn shifted into a hungry, wild thing that howled for blood.

CHAPTER 2

Yrene didn’t know how or when it happened, but the atmosphere in the White Pig changed. It was as if all the gathered men were waiting for something. The girl at the back was still at her table, still brooding. But her gloved fingers were tapping on the scarred wooden surface, and every now and then, she shifted her hooded head to look around the room.

Yrene couldn’t have left even if she wanted to. Last call wasn’t for another forty minutes, and she’d have to stay an hour after that to clean up and usher intoxicated patrons out the door. She didn’t care where they went once they passed the threshold—didn’t care if they wound up facedown in a watery ditch—just as long as they got out of the taproom. And stayed gone.

Nolan had vanished moments ago, either to save his own hide or to do some dark dealings in the back alley, and Jessa was still in that sailor’s lap, flirting away, unaware of the shift in the air.

Yrene kept looking at the hooded girl. So did many of the tavern’s patrons. Were they waiting for her to get up? There were some thieves that she recognized—thieves who had been circling like vultures for the past two days, trying to figure out whether the strange girl could use the weapons she carried. It was common knowledge that she was leaving tomorrow at dawn. If they wanted her money, jewelry, weapons, or something far darker, tonight would be their last chance.

Yrene chewed on her lip as she poured a round of ales for the table of four mercenaries playing Kings. She should warn the girl—tell her that she might be better off sneaking to her ship right now, before she wound up with a slit throat.

But Nolan would throw Yrene out into the streets if he knew she had warned her. Especially when many of the cutthroats were beloved patrons who often shared their ill-gained profits with him. And she had no doubt that he’d send those very men after her if she betrayed him. How had she become so adjusted to these people? When had Nolan and the White Pig become a place and position she wanted so desperately to keep?

Yrene swallowed hard, pouring another mug of ale. Her mother wouldn’t have hesitated to warn the girl.

But her mother had been a good woman—a woman who never wavered, who never turned away a sick or wounded person, no matter how poor, from the door of their cottage in southern Fenharrow. Never.

As a prodigiously gifted healer blessed with no small amount of magic, her mother had always said it wasn’t right to charge people for what she’d been given for free by Silba, the Goddess of Healing. And the only time she’d seen her mother falter was the day the soldiers from Adarlan surrounded their house, armed to the teeth and bearing torches and wood.

They hadn’t bothered to listen when her mother explained that her power, like Yrene’s, had already disappeared months before, along with the rest of the magic in the land—abandoned by the gods, her mother had claimed.

No, the soldiers hadn’t listened at all. And neither had any of those vanished gods to whom her mother and Yrene had pleaded for salvation.

It was the first—and only—time her mother took a life.

Yrene could still see the glint of the hidden dagger in her mother’s hand, still feel the blood of that soldier on her bare feet, hear her mother scream at her to run, smell the smoke of the bonfire as they burned her gifted mother alive while Yrene wept from the nearby safety of Oakwald Forest.

It was from her mother that Yrene had inherited her iron stomach—but she’d never thought those solid nerves would wind up keeping her here, claiming this hovel as her home.

Yrene was so lost in thought and memory that she didn’t notice the man until a broad hand was wrapped around her waist.

“We could use a pretty face at this table,” he said, grinning up at her with a wolf’s smile. Yrene stepped back, but he held firm, trying to yank her into his lap.

“I’ve work to do,” she said as blandly as possible. She’d detangled herself from situations like this before—countless times now. It had stopped scaring her long ago.

“You can go to work on me,” said another of the mercenaries, a tall man with a worn-looking blade strapped to his back. Calmly, she pried the first mercenary’s fingers off her waist.

“Last call is in forty minutes,” she said pleasantly, stepping back—as far as she could without irritating the men grinning at her like wild dogs. “Can I get you anything else?”

“What are you doing after?” said another.

“Going home to my husband,” she lied. But they looked at the ring on her finger—the ring that now passed for a wedding band. It had belonged to her mother, and her mother’s mother, and all the great women before her, all such brilliant healers, all wiped from living memory.

The men scowled, and taking that as a cue to leave, Yrene hurried back to the bar. She didn’t warn the girl—didn’t make the trek across the too-big taproom, with all those men waiting like wolves.

Forty minutes. Just another forty minutes until she could kick them all out.

And then she could clean up and tumble into bed, one more day finished in this living hell that had somehow become her future.

Honestly, Celaena was a little insulted when none of the men in the taproom made a grab for her, her money, her ruby brooch, or her weapons as she stalked between the tables. The bell had just finished ringing for last call, and even though she wasn’t tired in the slightest, she’d had enough of waiting for a fight or a conversation or anything to occupy her time.

She supposed she could go back to her room and reread one of the books she’d brought. As she prowled past the bar, flipping a silver coin to the dark-haired serving girl, she debated the merits of instead going out onto the streets and seeing what adventure found her.

Reckless and stupid, Sam would say. But Sam wasn’t here, and she didn’t know if he was dead or alive or beaten senseless by Arobynn. It was a safe bet Sam had been punished for the role he’d played in liberating the slaves in Skull’s Bay.

She didn’t want to think about it. Sam had become her friend, she supposed. She’d never had the luxury of friends, and never particularly wanted any. But Sam had been a good contender, even if he didn’t hesitate to say exactly what he thought about her, or her plans, or her abilities.

What would he think if she just sailed off into the unknown and never went to the Red Desert, or never even returned to Rifthold? He might celebrate—especially if Arobynn appointed him as his heir. Or she could poach him, maybe. He’d suggested that they try to run away when they were in Skull’s Bay, actually. So once she was settled someplace, once she had established a new life as a top assassin in whatever land she made her home, she could ask him to join her. And they’d never put up with beatings and humiliations again. Such an easy, inviting idea—such a temptation.

Celaena trudged up the narrow stairs, listening for any thieves or cutthroats that might be waiting. To her disappointment, the upstairs hall was dark and quiet—and empty.

Sighing, she slipped into her room and bolted the door. After a moment, she shoved the ancient chest of drawers in front of it, too. Not for her own safety. Oh, no. It was for the safety of whatever fool tried to break in—and would then find himself split open from navel to nose just to satisfy a wandering assassin’s boredom.

But after pacing for fifteen minutes, she pushed aside the furniture and left. Looking for a fight. For an adventure. For anything to take her mind off the bruises on her face and the punishment Arobynn had given her and the temptation to shirk her obligations and instead sail to a land far, far away.

Yrene lugged the last of the rubbish pails into the misty alley behind the White Pig, her back and arms aching. Today had been longer than most.

There hadn’t been a fight, thank the gods, but Yrene still couldn’t shake her nerves and that sense of something being off. But she was glad—so, so glad—there hadn’t been a brawl at the Pig. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the rest of the night mopping blood and vomit off the floor and hauling broken furniture into the alley. After she’d rung the last-call bell, the men had finished their drinks, grumbling and laughing, and dispersed with little to no harassment.

Unsurprisingly, Jessa had vanished with her sailor, and given that the alley was empty, Yrene could only assume the young woman had gone elsewhere with him. Leaving her, yet again, to clean up.

Yrene paused as she dumped the less-disgusting rubbish into a neat pile along the far wall. It wasn’t much: stale bread and stew that would be gone by morning, snatched up by the half-feral urchins roaming the streets.

What would her mother say if she knew what had become of her daughter?

Yrene had been only eleven when those soldiers burned her mother for her magic. For the first six and a half years after the horrors of that day, she’d lived with her mother’s cousin in another village in Fenharrow, pretending to be an absolutely ungifted distant relative. It wasn’t a hard disguise to maintain: her powers truly had vanished. But in those days fear had run rampant, and neighbor had turned on neighbor, often selling out anyone formerly blessed with the gods’ powers to whatever army legion was closest. Thankfully, no one had questioned Yrene’s small presence; and in those long years, no one looked her way as she helped the family farm struggle to return to normal in the wake of Adarlan’s forces.

But she’d wanted to be a healer—like her mother and grandmother. She’d started shadowing her mother as soon as she could talk, learning slowly, as all the traditional healers did. And those years on that farm, however peaceful (if tedious and dull), hadn’t been enough to make her forget eleven years of training, or the urge to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She hadn’t been close to her cousins, despite their charity, and neither party had really tried to bridge the gap caused by distance and fear and war. So no one objected when she took whatever money she’d saved up and walked off the farm a few months before her eighteenth birthday.

She’d set out for Antica, a city of learning on the southern continent—a realm untouched by Adarlan and war, where rumor claimed magic still existed. She’d traveled on foot from Fenharrow, across the mountains into Melisande, through Oakwald, eventually winding up at Innish—where rumor also claimed one could find a boat to the southern continent, to Antica. And it was precisely here that she’d run out of money.

It was why she’d taken the job at the Pig. First, it had just been temporary, to earn enough to afford the passage to Antica. But then she’d worried she wouldn’t have any money when she arrived, and then that she wouldn’t have any money to pay for her training at the Torre Cesme, the great academy of healers and physicians. So she’d stayed, and weeks had turned into months. Somehow the dream of sailing away, of attending the Torre, had been set aside. Especially as Nolan increased the rent on her room and the cost of her food and found ways to lower her salary. Especially as that healer’s stomach of hers allowed her to endure the indignities and darkness of this place.

Yrene sighed through her nose. So here she was. A barmaid in a backwater town with hardly two coppers to her name and no future in sight.

There was a crunch of boots on stone, and Yrene glared down the alley. If Nolan caught the urchins eating his food—however stale and disgusting—he’d blame her. He’d say he wasn’t a charity and take the cost out of her paycheck. He’d done it once before, and she’d had to hunt down the urchins and scold them, make them understand that they had to wait until the middle of the night to get the food she so carefully laid out.

“I told you to wait until it’s past—” she started, but paused as four figures stepped from the mist.

Men. The mercenaries from before.

Yrene was moving for the open doorway in a heartbeat, but they were fast—faster.

One blocked the door while another came up behind her, grabbing her tight and pulling her against his massive body. “Scream and I’ll slit your throat,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot and reeking of ale. “Saw you making some hefty tips tonight, girl. Where are they?”

Yrene didn’t know what she would have done next: fought or cried or begged or actually tried to scream. But she didn’t have to decide.

The man farthest from them was yanked into the mist with a strangled cry.

The mercenary holding her whirled toward him, dragging Yrene along. There was a ruffle of clothing, then a thump. Then silence.

“Ven?” the man blocking the door called.

Nothing.

The third mercenary—standing between Yrene and the mist—drew his short sword. Yrene didn’t have time to cry out in surprise or warning as a dark figure slipped from the mist and grabbed him. Not in front, but from the side, as if they’d just appeared out of thin air.

The mercenary threw Yrene to the ground and drew the sword from across his back, a broad, wicked-looking blade. But his companion didn’t even shout. More silence.

“Come out, you bleedin’ coward,” the ringleader growled. “Face us like a proper man.”

A low, soft laugh.

Yrene’s blood went cold. Silba, protect her.

She knew that laugh—knew the cool, cultured voice that went with it.

“Just like how you proper men surrounded a defenseless girl in an alley?”

With that, the stranger stepped from the mist. She had two long daggers in her hands. And both blades were dark with dripping blood.

CHAPTER 3

Gods. Oh, gods.

Yrene’s breath came quickly as the girl stepped closer to the two remaining attackers. The first mercenary barked a laugh, but the one by the door was wide-eyed. Yrene carefully, so carefully, backed away.

“You killed my men?” the mercenary said, blade held aloft.

The young woman flipped one of her daggers into a new position. The kind of position that Yrene thought would easily allow the blade to go straight up through the ribs and into the heart. “Let’s just say your men got what was coming to them.”

The mercenary lunged, but the girl was waiting. Yrene knew she should run—run and run and not look back—but the girl was only armed with two daggers, and the mercenary was enormous, and—

It was over before it really started. The mercenary got in two hits, both met with those wicked-looking daggers. And then she knocked him out cold with a swift blow to the head. So fast—unspeakably fast and graceful. A wraith moving through the mist.

He crumpled into the fog and out of sight, and Yrene didn’t listen too hard as the girl followed where he’d fallen.

Yrene whipped her head to the mercenary in the doorway, preparing to shout a warning to her savior. But the man was already sprinting down the alley as fast as his feet could carry him.

Yrene had half a mind to do that herself when the stranger emerged from the mist, blades clean but still out. Still ready.

“Please don’t kill me,” Yrene whispered. She was ready to beg, to offer everything in exchange for her useless, wasted life.

But the young woman just laughed under her breath and said, “What would have been the point in saving you, then?”

Celaena hadn’t meant to save the barmaid.

It had been sheer luck that she’d spotted the four mercenaries creeping about the streets, sheer luck that they seemed as eager for trouble as she was. She had hunted them into that alley, where she found them ready to hurt that girl in unforgivable ways.

The fight was over too quickly to really be enjoyable, or be a balm to her temper. If you could even call it a fight.

The fourth one had gotten away, but she didn’t feel like chasing him, not as the servant girl stood in front of her, shaking from head to toe. Celaena had a feeling that hurling a dagger after the sprinting man would only make the girl start screaming. Or faint. Which would … complicate things.

But the girl didn’t scream or faint. She just pointed a trembling finger at Celaena’s arm. “You—you’re bleeding.”

Celaena frowned down at the little shining spot on her bicep. “I suppose I am.”

A careless mistake. The thickness of her tunic had stopped it from being a troublesome wound, but she’d have to clean it. It would be healed in a week or less. She made to turn back to the street, to see what else she could find to amuse her, but the girl spoke again.

“I—I could bind it up for you.”

She wanted to shake the girl. Shake her for about ten different reasons. The first, and biggest, was because she was trembling and scared and had been utterly useless. The second was for being stupid enough to stand in that alley in the middle of the night. She didn’t feel like thinking about all the other reasons—not when she was already angry enough.

“I can bind myself up just fine,” Celaena said, heading for the door that led into the White Pig’s kitchens. Days ago, she’d scoped out the inn and its surrounding buildings, and now could navigate them blindfolded.

“Silba knows what was on that blade,” the girl said, and Celaena paused. Invoking the Goddess of Healing. Very few did that these days—unless they were …

“I—my mother was a healer, and she taught me a few things,” the girl stammered. “I could—I could … Please let me repay the debt I owe you.”

“You wouldn’t owe me anything if you’d used some common sense.”

The girl flinched as though Celaena had struck her. It only annoyed her even more. Everything annoyed her—this town, this kingdom, this cursed world.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said softly.

“What are you apologizing to me for? Why are you apologizing at all? Those men had it coming. But you should have been smarter on a night like this—when I’d bet all my money that you could taste the aggression in that filthy damned taproom.”

It wasn’t the girl’s fault, she had to remind herself. Not her fault at all that she didn’t know how to fight back.

The girl put her face in her hands, her shoulders curving inward. Celaena counted down the seconds until the girl burst into sobs, until she fell apart.

But the tears didn’t come. The girl just took a few deep breaths, then lowered her hands. “Let me clean your arm,” she said in a voice that was … different, somehow. Stronger, clearer. “Or you’ll wind up losing it.”

And the slight change in the girl was interesting enough that Celaena followed her inside.

She didn’t bother about the three bodies in the alley. She had a feeling no one but the rats and carrion-feeders would care about them in this town.

CHAPTER 4

Yrene brought the girl to her room under the stairs, because she was half-afraid that the mercenary who’d gotten away would be waiting for them upstairs. And Yrene didn’t want to see any more fighting or killing or bleeding, strong stomach or no.

Not to mention she was also half-afraid to be locked in the suite with the stranger.

She left the girl sitting on her sagging bed and went to fetch two bowls of water and some clean bandages—supplies that would be taken out of her paycheck when Nolan realized they were gone. It didn’t matter, though. The stranger had saved her life. This was the least she could do.

When Yrene returned, she almost dropped the steaming bowls. The girl had removed her hood and cloak and tunic.

Yrene didn’t know what to remark on first:

That the girl was young—perhaps two or three years younger than Yrene—but felt old.

That the girl was beautiful, with golden hair and blue eyes that shone in the candlelight.

Or that the girl’s face would have been even more beautiful had it not been covered in a patchwork of bruises. Such horrible bruises, including a black eye that had undoubtedly been swollen shut at some point.

The girl was staring at her, quiet and still as a cat.

It wasn’t Yrene’s place to ask questions. Especially not when this girl had dispatched three mercenaries in a matter of moments. Even if the gods had abandoned her, Yrene still believed in them; they were still somewhere, still watching. She believed, because how else could she explain being saved just now? And the thought of being alone—truly alone—was almost too much to bear, even when so much of her life had gone astray.

The water sloshed in the bowls as Yrene set them down on the tiny table beside her bed, trying to keep her hands from trembling too much.

The girl said nothing while Yrene inspected the cut on her bicep. Her arm was slender, but rock-hard with muscle. The girl had scars everywhere—small ones, big ones. She offered no explanation for them, and it seemed to Yrene that the girl wore her scars the way some women wore their finest jewelry.

The stranger couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen, but … but Adarlan had made them all grow up fast. Too fast.

Yrene set about washing the wound, and the girl hissed softly. “Sorry,” Yrene said quickly. “I put some herbs in there as an antiseptic. I should have warned you.” Yrene kept a stash of them with her at all times, along with other herbs her mother had taught her about. Just in case. Even now, Yrene couldn’t turn away from a sick beggar in the street, and often walked toward the sound of coughing.

“Believe me, I’ve been through worse.”

“I do,” Yrene said. “Believe you, I mean.” Those scars and her mangled face spoke volumes. And explained the hood. But was it vanity or self-preservation that made her wear it? “What’s your name?”

“It’s none of your concern, and it doesn’t matter.”

Yrene bit her tongue. Of course it was none of her business. The girl hadn’t given a name to Nolan, either. So she was traveling on some secret business, then. “My name is Yrene,” she offered. “Yrene Towers.”

A distant nod. Of course, the girl didn’t care, either.

Then the stranger said, “What’s the daughter of a healer doing in this piece of shit town?”

No kindness, no pity. Just blunt, if not almost bored, curiosity.

“I was on my way to Antica to join their healers’ academy and ran out of money.” She dipped the rag into the water, wrung it out, and resumed cleaning the shallow wound. “I got work here to pay for the passage over the ocean, and … Well, I never left. I guess staying here became … easier. Simpler.”

A snort. “This place? It’s certainly simple, but easy? I think I’d rather starve in the streets of Antica than live here.”

Yrene’s face warmed. “It—I …” She didn’t have an excuse.

The girl’s eyes flashed to hers. They were ringed with gold—stunning. Even with the bruises, the girl was alluring. Like wildfire, or a summer storm swept in off the Gulf of Oro.

“Let me give you a bit of advice,” the girl said bitterly, “from one working girl to another: Life isn’t easy, no matter where you are. You’ll make choices you think are right, and then suffer for them.” Those remarkable eyes flickered. “So if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well go to Antica and be miserable in the shadow of the Torre Cesme.”

Educated and possibly extremely well-traveled, then, if the girl knew the healers’ academy by name—and she pronounced it perfectly.

Yrene shrugged, not daring to voice her dozens of questions. Instead, she said, “I don’t have the money to go now, anyway.”

It came out sharper than she intended—sharper than was smart, considering how lethal this girl was. Yrene didn’t try to guess what manner of working girl she might be—mercenary was about as dark as she’d let herself imagine.

“Then steal the money and go. Your boss deserves to have his purse lightened.”

Yrene pulled back. “I’m no thief.”

A roguish grin. “If you want something, then go take it.”

This girl wasn’t like wildfire—she was wildfire. Deadly and uncontrollable. And slightly out of her wits.

“More than enough people believe that these days,” Yrene ventured to say. Like Adarlan. Like those mercenaries. “I don’t need to be one of them.”

The girl’s grin faded. “So you’d rather rot away here with a clean conscience?”

Yrene didn’t have a reply, so she didn’t say anything as she set down the rag and bowl and pulled out a small tin of salve. She kept it for herself, for the nicks and scrapes she got while working, but this cut was small enough that she could spare a bit. As gently as she could, she smeared it onto the wound. The girl didn’t flinch this time.

After a moment, the girl asked, “When did you lose your mother?”

“Over eight years ago.” Yrene kept her focus on the wound.

“That was a hard time to be a gifted healer on this continent, especially in Fenharrow. The King of Adarlan didn’t leave much of its people—or royal family—alive.”

Yrene looked up. The wildfire in the girl’s eyes had turned into a scorching blue flame. Such rage, she thought with a shiver. Such simmering rage. What had she been through to make her look like that?

She didn’t ask, of course. And she didn’t ask how the young woman knew where she was from. Yrene understood that her golden skin and brown hair were probably enough to mark her as being from Fenharrow, if her slight accent didn’t give her away.

“If you managed to attend the Torre Cesme,” the girl said, her anger shifting as if she had shoved it down deep inside her, “what would you do afterward?”

Yrene picked up one of the fresh bandages and began wrapping it around the girl’s arm. She’d dreamed about it for years, contemplated a thousand different futures while she washed dirty mugs and swept the floors. “I’d come back. Not to here, I mean, but to the continent. Go back to Fenharrow. There are a … a lot of people who need good healers these days.”

She said the last part quietly. For all she knew, the girl might support the King of Adarlan—might report her to the small town guard for just speaking ill of the king. Yrene had seen it happen before, far too many times.

But the girl looked toward the door with its makeshift bolt that Yrene had constructed, at the closet that she called her bedroom, at the threadbare cloak draped over the half-rotted chair against the opposite wall, then finally back at her. It gave Yrene a chance to study her face. Seeing how easily she’d trounced those mercenaries, whoever had harmed her must be fearsome indeed.

“You’d really come back to this continent—to the empire?”

There was such quiet surprise in her voice that Yrene met her eyes.

“It’s the right thing to do,” was all Yrene could think of to say.

The girl didn’t reply, and Yrene continued wrapping her arm. When she was finished, the girl shrugged on her shirt and tunic, tested her arm, and stood. In the cramped bedroom, Yrene felt so much smaller than the stranger, even if there were only a few inches’ difference between them.

The girl picked up her cloak but didn’t don it as she took a step toward the closed door.

“I could find something for your face,” Yrene blurted.

The girl paused with a hand on the doorknob and looked over her shoulder. “These are meant to be a reminder.”

“For what? Or—to whom?” She shouldn’t pry, shouldn’t have even asked.

She smiled bitterly. “For me.”

Yrene thought of the scars she’d seen on her body and wondered if those were all reminders, too.

The young woman turned back to the door, but stopped again. “Whether you stay, or go to Antica and attend the Torre Cesme and return to save the world,” she mused, “you should probably learn a thing or two about defending yourself.”

Yrene eyed the daggers at the girl’s waist, the sword she hadn’t even needed to draw. Jewels embedded in the hilt—real jewels—glinted in the candlelight. The girl had to be fabulously wealthy, richer than Yrene could ever conceive of being. “I can’t afford weapons.”

The girl huffed a laugh. “If you learn these maneuvers, you won’t need them.”

Celaena took the barmaid into the alley, if only because she didn’t want to wake the other inn guests and get into yet another fight. She didn’t really know why she’d offered to teach her to defend herself. The last time she’d helped anybody, it had just turned around to beat the hell out of her. Literally.

But the barmaid—Yrene—had looked so earnest when she talked about helping people. About being a healer.

The Torre Cesme—any healers worth their salt knew about the academy in Antica where the best and brightest, no matter their station, could study. Celaena had once dreamed of dwelling in the fabled cream-colored towers of the Torre, of walking the narrow, sloping streets of Antica and seeing wonders brought in from lands she’d never heard of. But that was a lifetime ago. A different person ago.

Not now, certainly. And if Yrene stayed in this gods-forsaken town, other people were bound to try to attack her again. So here Celaena was, cursing her own conscience for a fool as they stood in the misty alley behind the inn.

The bodies of the three mercenaries were still out there, and Celaena caught Yrene cringing at the sound of scurrying feet and soft squeaking. The rats hadn’t wasted any time.

Celaena gripped the girl’s wrist and held up her hand. “People—men—usually don’t hunt for the women who look like they’ll put up a fight. They’ll pick you because you look off-guard or vulnerable or like you’d be sympathetic. They’ll usually try to move you to another location where they won’t need to worry about being interrupted.”

Yrene’s eyes were wide, her face pale in the light of the torch Celaena had dropped just outside the back door. Helpless. What was it like to be helpless to defend yourself? A shudder that had nothing to do with the rats gnawing on the dead mercenaries went through her.

“Do not let them move you to another location,” Celaena continued, reciting from the lessons that Ben, Arobynn’s Second, had once taught her. She’d learned self-defense before she’d ever learned to attack anyone, and to first fight without weapons, too.

“Fight back enough to convince them that you’re not worth it. And make as much noise as you can. In a shit-hole like this, though, I bet no one will bother coming to help you. But you should still start screaming your head off about a fire—not rape, not theft, not something that cowards would rather hide from. And if shouting doesn’t discourage them, then there are a few tricks to outsmart them.

“Some might make them drop like a stone, some might get them down temporarily, but as soon as they let go of you, your biggest priority is getting the hell away. You understand? They let you go, you run.”

Yrene nodded, still wide-eyed. She remained that way as Celaena took the hand she’d lifted and walked her through the eye-gouge, showing her how to shove her thumbs into the corner of someone’s eyes, crook her thumbs back behind the eyeballs, and—well, Celaena couldn’t actually finish that part, since she liked her own eyeballs very much. But Yrene grasped it after a few times, and did it perfectly when Celaena grabbed her from behind again and again.

She then showed her the ear clap, then how to pinch the inside of a man’s upper thigh hard enough to make him scream, where to stomp on the most delicate part of the foot, what soft spots were the best to hit with her elbow (Yrene actually hit her so hard in the throat that Celaena gagged for a good minute). And then told her to go for the groin—always try to go for a strike to the groin.

And when the moon was setting, when Celaena was convinced that Yrene might stand a chance against an assailant, they finally stopped. Yrene seemed to be holding herself a bit taller, her face flushed.

“If they come after you for money,” Celaena said, jerking her chin toward where the mercenaries lay in a heap, “throw whatever coins you have far away from you and run in the opposite direction. Usually they’ll be so occupied by chasing after your money that you’ll have a good chance of escape.”

Yrene nodded. “I should—I should teach all this to Jessa.”

Celaena didn’t know or care who Jessa was, but she said, “If you get the chance, teach it to any female who will take the time to listen.”

Silence fell between them. There was so much more to learn, so much else to teach her. But dawn was about two hours away, and she should probably go back to her room now, if only to pack and go. Go, not because she was ordered to or because she found her punishment acceptable, but … because she needed to. She needed to go to the Red Desert.

Even if it was only to see where the Wyrd planned to lead her. Staying, running away to another land, avoiding her fate … she wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t be like Yrene, a living reminder of loss and shoved-aside dreams. No, she’d continue to the Red Desert and follow this path, wherever it led, however much it stung her pride.

Yrene cleared her throat. “Did you—did you ever have to use these maneuvers? Not to pry. I mean, you don’t have to answer if—”

“I’ve used them, yes—but not because I was in that kind of situation. I …” She knew she shouldn’t say it, but she did. “I’m usually the one who does the hunting.”

Yrene, to her surprise, just nodded, if a bit sadly. There was such irony, she realized, in them working together—the assassin and the healer. Two opposite sides of the coin.

Yrene wrapped her arms around herself. “How can I ever repay you for—”

But Celaena held up a hand. The alley was empty, but she could feel them, could hear the shift in the fog, in the scurrying of the rats. Pockets of quiet.

She met Yrene’s stare and flicked her eyes toward the back door, a silent command. Yrene had gone white and stiff. It was one thing to practice, but to put lessons into action, to use them … Yrene was more of a liability. Celaena jerked her chin at the door, an order now.

There were at least five men—two on either end of the alley converging upon them, and one more standing guard by the busier end of the street.

Yrene was through the back door by the time Celaena drew her sword.

CHAPTER 5

In the darkened kitchen, Yrene leaned against the back door, a hand on her hammering heart as she listened to the melee outside. Earlier, the girl had the element of surprise—but how could she face them again?

Her hands trembled as the sound of clashing blades and shouts filtered through the crack beneath the door. Thumps, grunts, growls. What was happening?

She couldn’t stand it, not knowing what was happening to the girl.

It went against every instinct to open up the back door and peer out.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight:

The mercenary who had escaped earlier had returned with more friends—more skilled friends. Two were facedown on the cobblestones, pools of blood around them. But the remaining three were engaged with the girl, who was—was—

Gods, she moved like a black wind, such lethal grace, and—

A hand closed over Yrene’s mouth as someone grabbed her from behind and pressed something cold and sharp against her throat. There had been another man; he came in through the inn.

“Walk,” he breathed in her ear, his voice rough and foreign. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t tell anything about him beyond the hardness of his body, the reek of his clothes, the scratch of a heavy beard against her cheek. He flung open the door and, still holding the dagger to Yrene’s neck, strode into the alley.

The young woman stopped fighting. Another mercenary had gone down, and the two before her had their blades pointed at her.

“Drop your weapons,” the man said. Yrene would have shaken her head, but the dagger was pressed so close that any movement she made would have slit her own throat.

The young woman eyed the men, then Yrene’s captor, then Yrene herself. Calm—utterly calm and cold as she bared her teeth in a feral grin. “Come and get them.”

Yrene’s stomach dropped. The man had only to shift his wrist and he’d spill her life’s blood. She wasn’t ready to die—not now, not in Innish.

Her captor chuckled. “Bold and foolish words, girl.” He pushed the blade harder, and Yrene winced. She felt the dampness of her blood before she realized he’d cut a thin line across her neck. Silba save her.

But the girl’s eyes were on Yrene, and they narrowed slightly. In challenge, in a command. Fight back, she seemed to say. Fight for your miserable life.

The two men with the swords circled closer, but she didn’t lower her blade.

“Drop your weapons before I cut her open,” Yrene’s captor growled. “Once we’re done making you pay for our comrades, for all the money you cost us with their deaths, maybe we’ll let her live.” He squeezed Yrene tighter, but the young woman just watched him. The mercenary hissed. “Drop your weapons.”

She didn’t.

Gods, she was going to let him kill her, wasn’t she?

Yrene couldn’t die like this—not here, not as a no-name barmaid in this horrible place. Wouldn’t die like this. Her mother had gone down swinging—her mother had fought for her, had killed that soldier so Yrene could have a chance to flee, to make something of her life. To do some good for the world.

She wouldn’t die like this.

The rage hit, so staggering that Yrene could hardly see through it, could hardly see anything except a year in Innish, a future beyond her grasp, and a life she was not ready to part with.

She gave no warning before she stomped down as hard as she could on the bridge of the man’s foot. He jerked, howling, but Yrene brought up her arms, shoving the dagger from her throat with one hand as she drove her elbow into his gut. Drove it with every bit of rage she had burning in her. He groaned as he doubled over, and she slammed her elbow into his temple, just as the girl had shown her.

The man collapsed to his knees, and Yrene bolted. To run, to help, she didn’t know.

But the girl was already standing in front of her, grinning broadly. Behind her, the two men lay unmoving. And the man on his knees—

Yrene dodged aside as the young woman grabbed the gasping man and dragged him into the dark mist beyond. There was a muffled scream, then a thump.

And despite her healer’s blood, despite the stomach she’d inherited, Yrene barely made it two steps before she vomited.

When she was done, she found the young woman watching her again, smiling faintly. “Fast learner,” she said. Her fine clothes, even her darkly glittering ruby brooch, were covered with blood. Not her own, Yrene noted with some relief. “You sure you want to be a healer?”

Yrene wiped her mouth on the corner of her apron. She didn’t want to know what the alternative was—what this girl might be. No, all she wanted was to smack her. Hard.

“You could have dispatched them without me! But you let that man hold a knife to my throat—you let him! Are you insane?”

The girl smiled in such a way that said yes, she was most certainly insane. But she said, “Those men were a joke. I wanted you to get some real experience in a controlled environment.”

“You call that controlled?” Yrene couldn’t help shouting. She put a hand to the already clotted slice in her neck. It would heal quickly, but might scar. She’d have to inspect it immediately.

“Look at it this way, Yrene Towers: now you know you can do it. That man was twice your weight and had almost a foot on you, and you downed him in a few heartbeats.”

“You said those men were a joke.”

A fiendish grin. “To me, they are.”

Yrene’s blood chilled. “I—I’ve had enough of today. I think I need to go to bed.”

The girl sketched a bow. “And I should probably be on my way. Word of advice: wash the blood out of your clothes and don’t tell anyone what you saw tonight. Those men might have more friends, and as far as I’m concerned, they were the unfortunate victims of a horrible robbery.” She held up a leather pouch heavy with coins and stalked past Yrene into the inn.

Yrene spared a glance at the bodies, felt a heavy weight drop into her stomach, and followed the girl inside. She was still furious with her, still shaking with the remnants of terror and desperation.

So she didn’t say good-bye to the deadly girl as she vanished.

CHAPTER 6

Yrene did as the girl said and changed into another gown and apron before going to the kitchens to wash the blood from her clothes. Her hands were shaking so badly that it took longer than usual to wash the clothing, and by the time she finished, the pale light of dawn was creeping through the kitchen window.

She had to be up in … well, now. Groaning, she trudged back to her room to hang the wet clothes to dry. If someone saw her laundry drying, it would only raise suspicion. She supposed she’d have to be the one to pretend to find the bodies, too. Gods, what a mess.

Wincing at the thought of the long, long day ahead of her, trying to make sense of the night she’d just had, Yrene entered her room and softly shut the door. Even if she told someone, they probably wouldn’t believe her.

It wasn’t until she was done hanging her clothes on the hooks embedded in the wall that she noticed the leather pouch on the bed, and the note pinned beneath it.

She knew what was inside, could easily guess based on the lumps and edges. Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled out the note.

There, in elegant, feminine handwriting, the girl had written:

No name, no date. Staring at the paper, she could almost picture the girl’s feral smile and the defiance in her eyes. This note, if anything, was a challenge—a dare.

Hands shaking anew, Yrene dumped out the contents of the pouch.

The pile of gold coins shimmered, and Yrene staggered back, collapsing into the rickety chair across from the bed. She blinked, and blinked again.

Not just gold, but also the brooch the girl had been wearing, its massive ruby smoldering in the candlelight.

A hand to her mouth, Yrene stared at the door, at the ceiling, then back at the small fortune sitting on her bed. Stared and stared and stared.

The gods had vanished, her mother had once claimed. But had they? Had it been some god who had visited tonight, clothed in the skin of a battered young woman? Or had it merely been their distant whispers that prompted the stranger to walk down that alley? She would never know, she supposed. And maybe that was the whole point.

Wherever you need to go …

Gods or fate or just pure coincidence and kindness, it was a gift. This was a gift. The world was wide-open—wide-open and hers for the taking, if she dared. She could go to Antica, attend the Torre Cesme, go anywhere she wished.

If she dared.

Yrene smiled.

An hour later, no one stopped Yrene Towers as she walked out of the White Pig and never looked back.

Washed and dressed in a new tunic, Celaena boarded the ship an hour before dawn. It was her own damn fault that she felt hollow and light-headed after a night without rest. But she could sleep today—sleep the whole journey across the Gulf of Oro to the Deserted Land. She should sleep, because once she landed in Yurpa, she had a trek across blistering, deadly sands—a week, at least, through the desert before the reached the Mute Master and his fortress of Silent Assassins.

The captain didn’t ask questions when she pressed a piece of silver into his palm and went belowdecks, following his directions to find her stateroom. With the hood and blades, she knew none of the sailors would bother her. And while she now had to be careful with the money she had left, she knew she’d hand over another silver piece or two before the voyage was done.

Sighing, Celaena entered her cabin—small but clean, with a little window that looked out onto the dawn-gray bay. She locked the door behind her and slumped onto the tiny bed. She’d seen enough of Innish; she didn’t need to bother watching the departure.

She’d been on her way out of the inn when she’d passed that horrifically small closet Yrene called a bedroom. While Yrene had tended to her arm, Celaena had been astounded by the cramped conditions, the rickety furniture, the too-thin blankets. She’d planned to leave some coins for Yrene anyway—if only because she was certain the innkeeper would make Yrene pay for those bandages.

But Celaena had stood in front of that wooden door to the bedroom, listening to Yrene wash her clothes in the nearby kitchen. She found herself unable to turn away, unable to stop thinking about the would-be healer with the brown-gold hair and caramel eyes, of what Yrene had lost and how helpless she’d become. There were so many of them now—the children who had lost everything to Adarlan. Children who had now grown into assassins and barmaids, without a true place to call home, their native kingdoms left in ruin and ash.

Magic had been gone all these years. And the gods were dead, or simply didn’t care anymore. Yet there, deep in her gut, was a small but insistent tug. A tug on a strand of some invisible web. So Celaena decided to tug back, just to see how far and wide the reverberations would go.

It was a matter of moments to write the note and then stuff most of her gold pieces into the pouch. A heartbeat later, she’d set it on Yrene’s sagging cot.

She’d added Arobynn’s ruby brooch as a parting thought. She wondered if a girl from ravaged Fenharrow wouldn’t mind a brooch in Adarlan’s royal colors. But Celaena was glad to be rid of it, and hoped Yrene would pawn the piece for the small fortune it was worth. Hoped that an assassin’s jewel would pay for a healer’s education.

So maybe it was the gods at work. Maybe it was some force beyond them, beyond mortal comprehension. Or maybe it was just for what and who Celaena would never be.

Yrene was still washing her bloodied clothes in the kitchen when Celaena slipped out of her room, then down the hall, and left the White Pig behind.

As she stalked through the foggy streets toward the ramshackle docks, Celaena had prayed Yrene Towers wasn’t foolish enough to tell anyone—especially the innkeeper—about the money. Prayed Yrene Towers seized her life with both hands and set out for the pale-stoned city of Antica. Prayed that somehow, years from now, Yrene Towers would return to this continent, and maybe, just maybe, heal their shattered world a little bit.

Smiling to herself in the confines of her cabin, Celaena nestled into the bed, pulled her hood low over her eyes, and crossed her ankles. By the time the ship set sail across the jade-green gulf, the assassin was fast asleep.